I need a hug. The full basket of life I have had for so many years has been hit by a truck. At first it moved slowly and then sneakily the driver released the brakes and let it roll downhill full speed ahead, bumping into the world, turning it upside down. Black clouds darkened the sky. Anger, inability to cope with the spreading hatred is not simply destroying me. It’s out to get all of humanity.
My strong husband, Earl, has been nagging me to see a psychiatrist. ‘Come on, Baby, you don’t realize that you need help that I can’t give you. See somebody, please.’ I give him the finger treatment, turn my back to him and go upstairs to work on a plan. Earl’s red Mazda slides smoothly from the garage and I am alone with my thoughts, relishing the quiet. I make a list of possible action, topping it with ‘Suicides.’
1. See the psychiatrist, impress him, get a prescription and over-dose on it. 2. Jump from the Bromo Seltzer Tower. No good. I might kill, survive or kill a pedestrian. 3. Brake on a wet curve, swerve and crash into Randall’s Gulley? No. I might be crushed but not dead enough.
4. Go off the Tappanzee Bridge? No. I hate water but can swim and might do it at the last second. 5. Slit my throat, my wrists, in the bathtub? No. Too messy, too gross for Earl.
My eyes are too heavy with tears to stay open. They close until the phone rings and wakes me from my gruesome reverie. Bev asks me if I am watching the horrible news on Tov. I tell my friend, ‘No. I don’t want to see more doom.’ With a slam I hang up, knowing most likely I have one less friend now. They have been disappearing off my computer address list quite often lately. This needs special thought. I concentrate on my personal small phone book that I keep in the night stand. Listed were fifteen close friends going back to high school days. Now lines are drawn thru ten. When did I do that? Why? I start to cross out the Florence who called a little while ago but hold back. It doesn’t matter. Most likely she has already crossed my name off of her book.
Earl used to bring in the morning paper. He’d read it, folded it carefully, leaving the puzzle and anagram untouched, waiting for me to enjoy both. Recently he has been taking the paper with him. That is fine as even the puzzle no longer tempts me. It has come to pass that most of my email is Spam. My correspondents are still out there in cyberspace while I realize I’ve side-tracked myself into a mental depression.
I have lined up world teams on the battlefield. I can no longer place my bet on the U.S.A. Everything changed when The Towers went down. That was my black hole moment. Chavez, Taliban, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Israel, Palestine, the stock market, bubbling forever the Gulf oil spill. I can’t think right anymore. This can’t go on much longer or I will find a way to do myself in. No maybe about it. I must take Earl’s advice.
I call him at work and ask for the name of the psychiatrist his buddy mentioned. He starts to tell me and stops. ‘I’m busy, Bev. I’ll call you back soon.’ I manage to squeeze in, ‘Don’t. I want it now.’ He is still hanging on. I say, ‘Do you know what, Earl? I don’t need a hug. I need a hell of a lot more. Get the damn name NOW!’ His desk drawer has a familiar squeak when it opens. ‘I’ve got it. You know I love you, Bev,’ and he pauses. That felt like he was tapping me on my head as if I were a puppy who chewed up his shoe.
With what sounds more sincere, I hear him offer to go with me to see Dr. Zaffron so we three can work together to bring me back to my former self.
I make the appointment and also make Earl’s favorite dinner, smooth out my prettiest night gown and am ready to start.
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